Letting myself fall in love

Falling in love is one of the greatest and most intimate gifts we are given.  Humans claim to fall in love and I would argue that other creatures do as well.  To do so is to give a piece of yourself, a big piece, to someone else.  Doing so puts you at risk, makes you vulnerable, and to a certain extent makes the intimate and private rather public, or at least shared.  For many people, particularly those in my generation falling in love is a difficult decision, we keep ourselves guarded waiting for that someone special to come along, or we give in, fall in love, and then wait and see if that love holds or not.  While I don't usually share my most intimate thoughts and feeling this post seems to need them.

In my few years on this earth I have only fallen in love a few times.  I actually have yet to experience falling out of love, I believe that love stays with you and shifts its form as you grow, meet new people and experience new things.  Most of us grow up loving our families (biological or not) but after that, we choose who we love. I have been reluctant, at best, to put myself in situations where my heart is at stake.  Finding the "worth" of love has been difficult for me and so I have kept myself quite reserved. Those times that I did take the leap, stay with me as the best moments of my life and the deepest attachments I have with other people.  The most recent has been a young girl, age 2 1/2 and she has taken my heart in more ways than one.  Tene is my youngest host sister in Botou.  She is learning to speak and her vocabulary is expanding by leaps and bounds every day.  She is my favorite Senegalese dancer and she runs like the wind.  She and I spend lots of quality time together. Unlike other people in our family I do not reprimand her physically.  She is young and in my mind still needs the comfort and security of people that love her and lots of verbal attention. She is a fast learner and eager to become a Senegalese woman, but also still a toddler.  She comes to me for safety, sleep, and siips (cheese puffs).  Recently a few of my volunteer friends made the trip to Botou for a visit.  One of them commented on how well Tene and I get along and said that she was happy to see that I've let myself get attached.  Often volunteers choose to keep a certain distance from the people they are close to because they know that they are not permanent and that as transient beings, leaving is the hardest part.  I disagree, I understand the sentiment, but for me there has been something powerful for me to become attached.  The power of letting myself love and my ability to watch as Tene reciprocates has been one of the biggest blessings of my service so far.  It took me awhile to come to this state. I was reluctant at first when she only referred to me as -Tar, referring to the volunteer before me.  Then I was on the fence because, yes she is adorable, but was that all she was to me?  When she began to communicate and I saw a light in her eyes when she spoke, when she used her hands to talk to our deaf aunt, and her reaction to me upon my return from other cities or the bush I realized that I had to let myself fall.  And so here we are.  She is quite the talker and recently I was trying to ask her if she had any other young friends that she could play with, while I or her siblings were at work or at school.  She thought about it for a moment and then looked up at me and said, but you are my friend.  I tried to explain that I would be leaving in a year and that she would need to find some other people to play with.  She wouldn't have any of that talk so I left it alone.

It will be one of the hardest things I have ever done to leave Tene and Botou next year.  But falling in love with Tene is one of my most treasured accomplishments.  She has been added to my list of few that have made their way into my heart.

The Fifth Sense: Touch, Feels, etc.

For those of you that have been following my blog you know that I agreed to do posts on the five senses.  I have not forgotten that I still have one left.  The most difficult to accumulate details worthy of the written word but I figure a year in and I've touched a lot. Time to give you a sense.

The feel of new born babies (literally a few days old).  The feel of a recently shaved head (baby or otherwise).  Shucking peanuts on a hard service, enough to give you blisters.  Shucking corn, also gives you blisters.  Mixing cucumbers together for salad, with your bare hands.  Wiping your tush.  Pouring water over your head as a shower.  Baby peeing/pooping on your lap.  Holding up a bleating baby goat upside down.  Rubbing dirt encrusted on your face in sweat off your face.  Shucking beans (if that is the correct verbiage for that). Working in the gardens/fields with hand tools all day and also receiving blisters.

This is a short post. I'm sure can get the picture but I cannot think of much more now.

Some recent updates

For those of you that read my last two blog posts, I have updates for both.

Apparently there is a fourth option for my sister Sorkna.  She can do the last year of primary school again in Botou and try again for the middle school in Tamba next year.  One of our teachers came to our compound yesterday and talked to Raki about it. Let's hope she makes it!

The second point, as I was delivering photos to Tacko yesterday she mentioned that I should have told her I don't like to take photos at night (because of the shitty flash I have) because they would have moved the dance party to the afternoon when there is daylight.  Next time, I told her, next time.

A sad reality

A few months ago, I posted a photo of one of my host sisters Sorkna with a caption stating that she had scored first on her exam and would be going to middle school in Tamba. Unfortunately this is not true and was never true. I did not deceive you on purpose nor was I deceived myself. I am here to try and understand the qualities that now go into my kind, smart witted, and caring sister staying in Botou and ending her formal education.


We have a primary school in Botou. Kids can begin to go to school around age 4/5 but many wait until much later either because their parents don't care or because they need them to help around the house or in the fields. The teachers that come to the school in Botou generally do not choose to teach here. They are sent here by the government via the department of education (affecté). Many of the teachers are quite young, some haven't even been to university but rather received teaching qualifications through a certificate program.  Some are quality teachers, passionate about teaching and interested in helping their students succeed. But many take a laissez faire attitude toward teaching. The style of teaching mimics that of the French, memorizing lessons word for word and regurgitating them in class. Many students also miss days here and there often because they are helping with harvests, child care, laundry, what have you. This combination can make a perfect storm or a perfect rainbow. In the case of my sister, the former. Her teacher was a new director to the school. Very rarely did I actually see him teaching. Even rarer did I see Sorkna pull out her notebook after school and read or learn her lessons. And never did I see her parents helping her or encouraging her to study. This year was her second attempt at going to middle school. One day in June she went to Tamba and took the entrance exam. A few weeks later she told me that she had gotten first and I took this to mean placed first in the exam and would be attending school in Tamba. So I posted the photo. It has become apparent to me now that whatever she recorded "first" in was not related to her ability to go to middle school (I am still not sure what she was referring to). It looks like she won't be going to school, likely ever again. There are three possibilities that can come out of the exam for middle school. 1) you pass and go to the next year with zero restrictions 2) you pass and proceed to the next year but you are on probation and must take the same exam after the first year of middle school 3) you do not pass and you end your schooling

This is public school. This is Senegal. This is what happened to Sorkna.


School starts on Monday.  We have a new school director, someone from Botou which I believe that will be very beneficial to Botou and the students in the near future.  He held a meeting for both the mamas and the papas of the students and was very concerned with low number of students that have been passing the exam to go to school in Tamba.  He has brought the attention to the parents, telling them that they need to be concerned and active parents with their students if they want to succeed.  The parents seemed to hear this, but we will have to see what happens in the months to come.

Dancing in the name of

My one year anniversary was the 21st of September. One year since I arrived in Senegal, had a thermometer shoved in my ear to check and make sure I didn't have Ebola and landed my feet in the hot, and tropical climate that is Senegal. Most people might get sentimental at this point, reminiscing about all the things they've learned about themselves, about their work partners, family members, etc. and about what they are looking forward to in the 14 months to come. I too, might have written such a post if Tacko had decided not to have a dance party in my honor. It was a few days before the big Senegalese holiday when I went over to her house for something and she told me that in a few days "we are going to dance and play." I asked her what for and she answered, "for Halima". Not knowing exactly what that meant (maybe another slip up of my Bambara language skills) I sort of put that into the back filing cabinet of my brain. Later I asked Raki what she meant and why they were going to dance. "To make you happy," she said, and happy I was made.

It was organized for Sunday afternoon but when Tacko came over only a few other women showed up because they were still busy greeting people for the holiday. It was suggested that they do it after dinner (a time when many of you know I hit the sack and read). I decided I could probably stay up for an hour or so and watch the women dance. So during dinner women from my village came filing in, dressed to the nines, and with hollowed out gourd bowl and baignoire of water at the ready the dancing begun. They sang my name, and danced their hearts out. One woman, Sambura, about 80 years old, sang her heart out, orating my name and my redeemable qualities as a human (toubab) and as a worker. Singing in then name of Halima Fofana the women danced together, danced apart, and shook their booties until sweat was dripping off their foreheads and onto the ground. It was fantastic. I joined them in my hideous attempts at dancing Senegalese style, and I laughed, smiled and occasionally hooted my praise at their amazing moves and incredible energy. The greatest part about this celebration was just that, their energy and their celebration. The focus, at least for me, was on the women and the way their bodies move to the beat of the gourd and the pleasure they get out of dancing.

Rainy Season

I wrote this on June 11 and sent it to my email.  It was then buried very deep.

This first time it rains in Senegal it's scary brilliant. Not scary in a "I lost my mom in the mall" kind of way, but instead in the "oh my god, it can storm here just like in Vermont" kind of way.  I'm writing this from inside my hut at one o'clock in the morning, because today was the day it happened. The day it rained. But not only did it rain, it thundered and poured and lighting struck and lit up the sky like I have never before seen in Senegal. I didn't know thunder storms existed here. I love them at home but here when there is nothing to protect you except your hut, grass roof and mosquito net it comes in with a vengeance. It is as if the rain gods are punishing the earth for not giving the Sahel enough rain. When it first rained for the first time I was sleeping. But let me be clear. I was sleeping outside, naked, with my iPhone and my kindle. This is Peace Corps 10.0 people. At first it was just a terrible dust storm. The kind where you pull the sheet over the head and cover the pillows to avoid dust. The wind blows so hard the dust is forced up and into every possible surface and crevice and you just wait and hope that it ends soon. But this time, the drops came. The sky would light up and the dust and wind continued. And then the rain really came down. I tried to cover my head with the sheet but it wasn't going to suffice. I quickly gathered up my three pillows, my blanket, my sheet, my kindle and iPhone and headed for my hut. I would like to say that I skillfully managed to get out of mosquito net but that was hardly the case. I became entangled in my net (the last thing you want when it's raining dust). Finally I untangled myself and rushed myself and my stuff instead only to realize that my sleeping bag (which I use as a pad) and my net were getting wet. I rushed back out to get them as well leaving the already soaked mat to get nice and clean from the Senegal rains. I'll deal with that tomorrow. I came inside and immediately took the things off my desk that would suffer if wet- my electronics, my planner, and my journal. Tucked safely away in my metal trunk I did the same with myself. Back in my bed with my mosquito net I'm watching the baobabs light up in the fields out my window. The cracks of thunder are the most intense I've ever experienced and here I am, drafting an email to myself on my iPhone. Welcome to rainy season.

Finding your self worth

Development isn't easy. Defining it is an issue all unto itself but I'm not getting into that because a definition isn't what is needed right now, and anyways my Marxism would just get in the way.  You can't throw money at it. You can't just "do development" for people. You can see it. You can sense it. And you can watch it happen over many years. Technically as Peace Corps Volunteers we are development workers. We are all here for different reasons. We all have job descriptions. We live by the code of three goals.  These goals are not tangible. We cannot always see the fruits of our labor. What we can see is love lost, folks back home not quite understanding what we are doing here, ourselves unsure of our competences and our value. Why are we here? Why am I, someone who got a degree from a liberal arts college in political science, helping people with their agricultural development ? Why is it my right to walk into someone's field and tell them how they might better grow their corn? As many of you know my knowledge of field crops and farming in general is limited to say the least. I spent my "formative" years studying human rights in Africa, francophone literature and understanding why ethnic conflicts in the Democratic Republic of the Congo occur. But now I'm here, living in a village that is the epitome of subsistence farming. We grow what we can eat and if the rains come in full throttle (400mm during rainy season) we can maybe make $100. Everyone in my family eats off about a dollar a day. I am here because I chose to come here. I wasn't forced to sign up for these 27 months. My tour of duty, as I like to refer to it, is my choice alone. I received a very comprehensive training (in my opinion and others may beg to differ) from the Peace Corps Senegal team. I feel comfortable in village. I have integrated very well into my family and my village. I have a few work partners whom I cherish and some friends who think the world of me, as I do them. But my job isn't always easy.

Right now in the midst of rainy season I am extending improved variety field crop seed to farmers as a joint effort in cooperation with ISRA a Dakar seed research agency. I have about 16 farmers who I have given seed and a training to about the program and their responsibility to the seed and to me. They will notify me when they sow the seed, add any herbicides, weed or thin, etc. I visit these farmers at least once a week. As of now only about a third of my farmers have sown their seeds. They are all very busy planting all their other seeds, the seeds that to them matter so much more than my seed. Their seed is their livelihood and my seed is just a side project. Something that may produce a good yield but not enough to make a profit in their pocket. Often when I go to visit a farmer's field or to see them at their houses they are not there. They are out in their other fields. I find myself feeling frustrated with myself for not being more productive. Once field visits are done with the farmers that have seeded and I have answered all their questions and asked them mine I go back home. It's early, before anyone else has returned from the fields. People ask me why I don't have my own field of peanuts or bitter tomato or okra. I tell them what I have in my garden and explain that I visit other people's fields and I'm free to help anyone with gardening or tree planting, etc. but it isn't easy coming back around noon and feeling useless as everyone else rolls in on the charette at 2pm exhausted. But let me be clear, my job while it may be agriculture work is not to do the work for my farmers. I'm not about to go and be free manual labor for someone. That isn't development. And frankly, as a woman, people tell me I'm exhausted after I've used a small hand hoe for ten minutes. But that doesn't seem to bother me. If all these things were to bother me I would be miserable. And if I were miserable I would go home.

 Instead I chose to look at my service through a different lens. I believe I am helping people, not all may be agriculture related but it all "counts".  I've been planting trees out in fields where there normally aren't trees. I've taught farmers about thinning their crops and adding amendments to their soil. And above all, I've seen my baby sister speak before anyone else her age in the village. The small successes should be celebrated. We should be proud of ourselves and I know our families back home are proud of us. Our Peace Corps service is much different than it was for those volunteers twenty or thirty years ago. Yes I can type this blog post on my iPhone in village and post it this weekend. Yes I have easy contact with my supportive parents. But that doesn't mean that my service is easier than it was for those volunteers many years before. I can't, and no one should, compare my service with that of my doctor who 20 years ago served in the DRC. My service isn't lesser because I can contact my friends and family. My service isn't lesser because I am not able to be as effective in changing the behavior of planting seed in my village. Every volunteer will say that their service is their service, unique and independent. But everyone suffers from comparing their service to someone else's and struggling with the judgement of their work from their host families, counterparts, other volunteers, our Peace Corps bosses, people back home, and none of it makes this any easier.


 Peace Corps is not supposed to be a permanent reality. It also shouldn't be something that makes us question our self worth. I tell my fellow volunteers that I think of my service and my time in Botou as a hiatus from my real life. I understand that this is my present. But I also know it won't last forever and that my other life is waiting for me back home. I am looking forward to finishing my two years and come back to my life a changed person: changed by my service, my language, my name, my village, my incompetences, my successes, and my self worth.